


Of Fathers and Sons

by hunenka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hunters, Implied/Referenced Incest, POV John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/pseuds/hunenka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Stanford era</i>. When did John decide it was time for Dean to hunt on his own?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Fathers and Sons

**Of Fathers and Sons**  
by hunenka  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Pairing(s): Dean/OFC, slight one-sided John/Dean and Dean/OMC  
Rating: teen and up audiences  
Warnings: mentions of incest  
Summary: _Stanford era_. When did John decide it was time for Dean to hunt on his own?

 

===

John starts drinking his second beer, leaning back into the chair more comfortably as the alcohol spreads through him. He looks at the hunter sitting next to him across the table. He hasn’t seen Bruce in good ten years and it’s good to talk to an old friend.

“That your son?” Bruce jerks his head towards the bar where Dean is chatting up a girl, whispering something into her ear that makes her blush as he runs his fingers up and down her arm.

The boy deserves some downtime though, so John just rolls his eyes at him inwardly and nods. “Yeah, that’s Dean.” He can’t help letting some of his pride show in his voice. Dean is a good son.

“You had two kids, right? Where’s the other one?”

John knew the question would come, but still he feels himself grimace as he says, “He left. He’s not hunting anymore.” The words taste bitter in his mouth, stronger than the beer.

Bruce seems surprised for a moment, but then he shrugs.

“He’s studying law at Stanford,” John elaborates, because even though the disappointment of his younger son walking away from him still stings, he’s also proud of him, too. “Sam’s pretty smart, he’s gonna make it far.”

“Didn’t think it was possible to walk away from hunting.” Bruce shrugs again. “Lucky guy, your son.”

 _Which one_ , John wants to ask but he doesn’t, because he’s not sure he wants to hear the answer.

For a long while, neither of them says anything. They finish their beers and order another round. Out of the corner of his eye, John can see Dean with the girl. They’re kissing now, his hand on her ass pressing her into him, her hands under Dean’s jacket.

Bruce’s chuckle brings John’s attention back to their table.

“He’s young and she’s obviously willing,” Bruce observes good-naturedly. “Can’t say I blame ‘em.” It’s almost as if he felt the need to defend them, which absolutely isn’t necessary. John understand the need, he’s not exactly a saint himself.

Dean and the girl walk past them, hand in hand, leaving the bar together. Dean looks back over his shoulder at John, meeting his eyes to make sure that this is okay, he isn’t needed right now. John gives him a curt smile and a nod, and then Dean and the girl are out of the door.

“Gotta take every comfort you can find, right?” Apparently, Bruce was watching the couple, too. “A hunter’s life ain’t easy.”

John doesn’t think a hunter’s life _should_ be easy, but he’s tired and pleasantly drunk and he doesn’t want to get into a philosophical debate, so he just makes a noncommittal sound and starts on his third beer.

“I’ve gotta tell you, though,” Bruce slurs slightly. He’s never been able to hold his alcohol; obviously, some things never change. “He’s real pretty.”

Not quite able to follow his friend’s thoughts, John looks up from his beer. “Who?”

The hunter grins at him, lopsided, and wipes a bit of foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand. “Dean.”

It takes some time for John to realize what Bruce is saying – more time than it should, probably – and even when he does, he still doesn’t know what to say to that. But his expression must be really eloquent, because Bruce starts to laugh. John doesn’t find it funny at all.

“Aw, come on,” Bruce spreads his arms out in a drunk peace offering. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?”

John feels himself tense, hands curling into fists. His mind is cold, as if all the alcohol he’s drunk just disappeared. “No.” The syllable is so sharp it could cut a vampire’s head off.

Bruce doesn’t seem to notice, though. “I don’t believe you, man. You two are together practically all the time, the idea must’ve at least come to your mind.”

He could say _He’s my son_ , but he doesn’t. He’s been through a war and he’s been a hunter for over two decades; he’s seen all kinds of fucked-up, ugly stuff and he knows there are individuals who wouldn’t find the argument valid. He’s not one of them.

“No? Really?” Bruce is still acting as if he doesn’t know what a mess he’s gotten himself into. John wonders how he could survive so long with such poor instincts. “Well, I’ve gotta say, I wouldn’t mind putting those girly lips to use myself.”

John’s fist hits Bruce, hard. The hunter falls off his chair, tumbling on the hardwood floor. The people in the bar are whispering in scared, hushed voices, but John pays no attention to them as he stands up, walks over to Bruce and grabs him by the lapels of his coat, raising him off the ground with no effort at all, anger giving him strength. “Say that again,” he growls, his face mere inches from the other hunter’s, “and you’re dead.”

With that, he lets go of Bruce and storms out of the bar.

 

*

He should probably get back to the motel as fast as he can, pack up their bags and get the hell out of this town, but he knows Dean won’t be back yet, he likes to take time with his girls. John could call him, of course, tell him to come and Dean would, but for some reason John isn’t willing to do that. Dean deserves some time off.

Also, John needs some time alone with himself.

So he walks back to the motel, which is about two miles away. The cool night air feels good, helps him clear his head.

He can’t help thinking about Bruce, about what he’d said, _how_ he could say something like that.

But sadly, he’s met more hunters who were like that; who’d gone wild, thought themselves above the law, above the norms, or forgotten that things like that even existed. Men who spent their lives alone, on the road, living in anonymous motel rooms, eating in interchangeable diners, lying, faking and fighting their way through life without being actually alive.

Men who were so swallowed up by the violence, the blood, the gore, blinded by the righteousness of their mission or by the viciousness of their revenge.

Sometimes, John is afraid that if it weren’t for Dean, he’d end up just like them. But Dean is _always_ there, has always been there, ever since he was a little kid, too small to pick up a shotgun. Dean is always reminding him of what’s important, reminding him that the primary objective is _saving people_ , not _hunting things_.

That’s what makes Dean such a great hunter, even at his young age. John knows that when Dean gets older, more experienced, he’s going to be the best goddamn hunter the world has ever seen. Not because he’s a better shot than the others, not because he’s a better fighter or a faster thinker. Because he’s better at being human.

He never closed himself off the way John had, he never ran away from his life like Sam had. Somehow he managed to combine Sam’s sensitive humanity with John’s soldier’s discipline. Because of that, he’s vulnerable in ways John could never be, but he’s also better.

And that’s every parent’s wish, right? To see their children grow up better people than themselves.

John is proud of his son and he’s grateful for him, for his company and his steady, silent support.

 _I must tell him more often_ , he promises himself.

 

*

“Dad? Dad!”

John realizes he must’ve got lost in his thoughts. He shakes his head, blinking several times to clear his vision. “Yeah?”

It’s two weeks after the incident with Bruce, they’re in another town, in another state, and they’ve just taken down a pack of werewolves.

Dean looks a bit worried and John mentally admonishes himself for losing focus like this. “I’m alright,” he assures him. “Just tired. What were you saying?”

“Just that we should come back here in a couple weeks. Make sure we really got them all,” Dean repeats. “If there were any freshmades, they might’ve slipped under our radar.”

“How so?”

“I’ve been going through some books,” Dean explains, eager as always when he has John’s attention. “The changes in the human body don’t show up until several days after the person got bitten. No reaction to silver, no nothing.”

John nods his appreciation at the new info. “Where did you learn that?”

“Found a bestiary in the last haunted house we were in. The Negrelli Mansion, remember?” John does remember, that place was huge and full of ghosts. “The last owner was an antiques collector; he had a couple of useful books in his library, so I took them.”

A smile is tugging at John’s lips and he lets it show. “Good work, son.”

Dean practically swells with pride at the simple praise. “Thank you, sir.”

John is still smiling as he stretches his hands before settling more comfortably against the wall on his bed. He should probably be doing something, but one of the werewolves threw him around a bit and although he wasn’t seriously injured, Dean insisted that he should rest.

For once, John listens to his son’s advice and sits back, watching Dean clean their weapons. Dean’s sitting on the other bed, all their guns laid out on the coverlet around him, and he takes each one of them apart, checking that it works as it should.

His leather jacket is thrown across the back of a nearby chair and he’s only wearing his old tattered jeans and a thin, short-sleeved T-shirt, both items of clothing already covered in all kinds of stains – gun oil, motor oil, even blood.

Dean is silent, concentrating on the task – although John knows he could disassemble each of their guns blindfolded. John knows it’s a ritual for him, something to do after a hunt, a pattern that never changes, always stays the same, a firm spot he can rely on. John doesn’t need that, his unchanging, reliable firm spot is Dean, and he’s sorry he can’t be that for his son.

Putting down his favorite 1911 Colt, Dean reaches for the sawed-off double-barrel next. He’s so absorbed by his task he isn’t aware of his father staring at him, so John can observe him, undisturbed.

He’s always been aware that Dean is good-looking, but it’s never been something he had to consciously think about before. It’s helped them on many hunts during investigation, people always tended to trust Dean easily, talk to him more openly than to John. But other than that, Dean’s good looks were just another piece of information, the same as, say, “Dean’s eyes are green” or “Dean is twenty-four years old”.

Now, though, it’s like John is looking at Dean with new eyes, as if Bruce’s words turned some switch in his head.

Dean _is_ pretty. He’s fit, strong, hard-muscled, yet at the same time he still retains some of his earlier boy softness, looking younger than his age, innocent even. He’s got Mary’s expressive eyes and fair skin and those full, sinuous lips that John can’t stop thinking about ever since he’s heard Bruce’s offensive comment.

He’s angry at himself, disgusted, but still he feels himself harden in his jeans. _I’m going to Hell_ , he thinks and shifts a bit to cover his erection better.

Silently, he watches as Dean finishes with the weapons and puts them in their duffels. He’s got gun oil smeared on his forehead and as he tries to wipe it away, he only manages to smear it more. He looks at his father, oblivious of John’s dark thoughts. “Mind if I take the first shower?”

“Sure, go on.”

Dean starts rummaging through another bag, looking for clean clothes. As he bends over, his shirt rides up and reveals a strip of pale skin.

John forces himself to look away.

 

*

Another week, another successful hunt. A simple salt and burn, no suspicion raised, no casualties, no injuries. If only every hunt went as smoothly as this one.

“How about a drink?” John suggests, not even sure why he’s said it.

Dean seems equally surprised, but also excited, so they hit the nearest bar.

They don’t talk much, but every time John opens his mouth, he can feel Dean’s eyes on him, Dean hanging on his every word. It only makes John drink harder.

They talk about hunting, mostly. Dean shares some of his ideas about tuning the Impala, John tells him about a new exorcism Bobby and Rufus are working on.

Things get a bit blurry after that, and John knows he’s been drinking more than Dean and now he feels kind of dizzy and when they get up to leave, he’s not very sure on his feet.

Of course, Dean is right there, next to him, offering support which John gratefully accepts because he really doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of his son. He only realizes this might not be the best idea when he wraps one arm around Dean’s broad shoulders and leans into him.

They’ve been this close before, of course they have, supporting each other after a hunt gone wrong, but it was never like this, with John so aware of Dean’s presence, his closeness, how easy it would be to touch, to taste…

Luckily, he’s too drunk to think about it more, let alone do something about it. Dean walks him to the car, helps him get to the passenger seat and gets behind the wheel.

When they get to the motel, John’s feeling a bit better, but his legs are still shaky so again, he accepts Dean’s shoulder. Dean gently lowers him to sit on the bed, standing before him, looking at him critically. “You should get some sleep, Dad.”

That sounds like a good idea and John starts to slump into the creaky yet very enticing mattress. “Sure.”

Dean’s hand on his shoulder stops his descent. “Not like this, Dad. At least get more comfortable.”

That also sounds like a good idea, but when John bends to unlace his boots, his head gets dizzy and he nearly falls off the bed. Dean catches him – like he always does – and holds him steady until he’s sure John isn’t going to fall.

“Lemme help you, okay?” Dean helps John shrug out of his jacket first, carefully folding it before placing it aside. Then he gets to his knees and reaches for John’s boots, which places his head very close to John’s crotch.

 _Oh_.

Just like that, John is hard and his mouth is dry and his hands are itching to reach out, touch Dean, bring him even closer. He places both hands on the bed instead, fingers crumpling the sheets.

Dean takes his boots off, places them near the bed and looks up at him, his face illuminated by the streetlight from the window, and he’s got his usual expression – trust and devotion and love – and he’s beautiful, so beautiful. “Want me to help with the rest of your clothes?”

 _Yes_ , John thinks.

“No,” he manages to say, voice tight. “I’m fine like this.”

But Dean still doesn’t move, and he’s still looking up to John, and _God help me_ , John reaches out with one hand and touches Dean’s cheek. Dean’s eyes go wider, but other than that, he gives no reaction.

“Dean,” John whispers hoarsely. He runs his thumb over Dean’s skin, across his temple. He’s so soft, so warm, so unsuspecting and unresisting. His mouth is slightly open, those lips are so plush and if John leaned towards him a little, he could kiss him right now.

“Dean,” he says again and touches Dean’s lips with his fingers. Again, Dean holds still, lets John touch him, the only reaction a slight rise of his eyebrows.

“Go to sleep, Dad,” he says finally, but makes no attempt to get up until John lets go of him and lies on the bed. Only then, he stands up and gives John a warm smile. “Goodnight.”

John lies there, his mind in turmoil, unable to sleep. He watches as Dean disappears into the bathroom, listens as he uses the shower quickly, then sees him slip under the covers in his bed, hears his breathing even out as he falls asleep.

 

*

John sits in his truck, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun with one hand.

Across the street, Dean is talking to a family they saved from a black dog last night. They’ve been handling the supernatural news quite well so far, though. The husband is holding his wife close, one hand around her waist, and they both listen carefully to what Dean’s telling them. Their child, a 5 years old boy, is running around, trying to draw some attention to himself.

He should be there with Dean, but Dean seems to handle the whole talking to civilians thing better than John, so he leaves him to it.

Finally, Dean shakes hands with both adults, offering them a warm, sincere smile, then leans down to shake the kid’s hand too before ruffling his hair playfully. Then he starts walking towards John, the smile still on his face.

John isn’t able to smile back.

He’s made up his mind.

 

*

Frankly, it’s not like John is really afraid he’d try something on Dean. Even though the idea is now firmly placed in his head, always nagging, he’s got discipline, self-control. He’s a hunter, a Marine, a father. He knows he’d never act on those thoughts.

What scares him though is that he isn’t sure Dean would say no if he _did_ try something. Just like John puts the Yellow-Eyed Demon in front of everything and everyone, Dean puts his family first. Always. And for the past few years, the only family Dean’s got is John.

Dean would do anything for his father. John is aware of that, and it scares him more than anything else in his life. This blind, obedient, self-sacrificing love that Dean has for him – and Sam, always Sam – might just be the most dangerous thing they’ve ever encountered.

He’s already taught his son everything about hunting, everything about being a man. But now Dean has to learn to think about himself a bit. Nothing good can come out of that much selflessness.

And that’s why John has to leave.

“Dean,” he says, and his heart aches when he sees the devotion with which his son’s eyes look at him. “I think it’s time you start hunting on your own.”

 

END


End file.
